


Karaoke Capers

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Gen, Karaoke, Stag Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John didn't realize just how embarrassing his stag night had really been until a video surfaces on YouTube. Little oneshot written for a Tumblr prompt. Such crack, so lulz, much giggling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Karaoke Capers

John knew something was wrong when they walked onto the crime scene and no one would look either of them in the eye. 

“All right, Greg?”

The detective inspector glanced up briefly and then went right back to staring intently at the clipboard in his hands.

“Not bad. Can’t say the same for our vic, though. You and Sherlock probably want to take a look, so I’ll leave you to it.”

John’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. Lestrade might be their best advocate on the Met, but even he was never this eager to hand a scene over without some lengthy caveat that Sherlock ignored but that John at least pretended to take into consideration.

Sherlock had already begun examining the body (two gunshot wounds to the torso and what looked like blunt-force trauma to the head), but his back stiffened at this sudden, unexpected quiescence. He shot the detective a piercing look, his expression going from annoyed to suspicious in less than 2 seconds.

“Don’t hold back. You already have it pulled up on your phone, so you may as well.”

“Show us what?” John felt his forehead wrinkle with consternation.

“Lestrade and his minions have clearly unearthed something hilarious about us – no doubt more of those ridiculous ‘Hat Man and Robin’ photos – and are itching to have a laugh about it. Come on, Lestrade, we haven’t all day.”

Lestrade, John saw, had gone a very particular shade of red. As he groped in his pocket for his cell-phone, the detective inspector offered John a crooked, apologetic grin.

“Caught Anderson sending links to this through departmental email. I put a stop to it, but the bloody thing had already gone viral. It seems you two are quite popular on YouTube, actually…”

John felt a cold patina of sweat break out across his forehead as he took the phone from Lestrade’s outstretched hand. Sherlock loomed behind him, glaring down at the device as though it were a piece of gum on the sole of his bespoke shoe. The video – for such it was – was just loud enough to be heard, and as the image on the screen registered in his mind, John felt his jaw drop several inches in shock.

The video was shaky, clearly taken from someone’s cell phone in a dimly-lit pub. A small stage with a microphone and a projector screen behind it was lit up with neon strobe lights, and front-and-center were none other than John and Sherlock. There was no doubt that they were drunk – three sheets to the wind, in fact – and it was a wonder that either of them was still on his feet. The date at the bottom of the screen matched with John’s ill-fated stag night, and the song that they were attempting to sing (very loudly, and with occasional pauses for Sherlock to critique the lyrics) was Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up.” 

“Someone’s even made a remix,” Lestrade was saying, but John barely registered the words. 

He would never live this down. How had this happened? Oh God, if the boys at rugby ever found this video…

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, “are you… are you all right, mate?”

John turned around to find Sherlock, paler than usual, frozen in place and uncharacteristically speechless.

“Come on, it’s not that bad.”

For once, Sherlock had no response, and the sight of Sherlock gobsmacked was enough to make John forget all about his own embarrassment. 

They ended up leaving the crime scene early after Sherlock snapped at one of the techs and nearly stomped off into a pool of congealed blood. John was certain he wasn’t imagining the look of barely-concealed mirth on Mrs. Hudson’s face when she popped in to bring them fresh scones and, to his horror, the video was plastered all over his Facebook and Twitter feeds by dinner time. A few hours later, however, all traces of the video had mysteriously vanished, leaving only broken links and error messages behind. Mycroft never took credit for the hack, but John felt certain that there was at least one copy tucked safely away in a high security vault somewhere in the basements of the Diogenes Club that would one day surface should the elder Mr. Holmes find himself in need of a bargaining chip.


End file.
